Read Online The Girl's Guide to the Apocalypse by Daphne Lamb - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Daphne Lamb
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slide made my feet slip. I turned around to see the entire tribe staring my way.
I grimaced. “Sorry!” I said. I straightened, turned around and put my hands up in the air. “I don’t mean you any harm,” I said. “I heard your music and just wanted to see what it was.”
Everyone was still staring. I shook, but tried to take long, deep breaths to make myself seem calmer.
The leader took a few steps forward and raised an eyebrow. His face, silver hair and rugged features were extremely familiar, and I knew that I knew him. I had never met him, but I knew I had seen him somewhere, like on television.
He held his guitar protectively in front of him like a shield. I kept my hands up.
“Where do you come from?” he asked.
With one hand I gestured up. “Over the hill,” I said. “There’s a house that a few of us are staying in for the moment.”
“Are you the ones who stole our food?” one of the women shouted.
“Why aren’t you at one of the quarantines?” he asked.
His voice was deep and smooth like a radio announcer’s.
“Our bus was attacked,” I said. “We don’t know where it is.”
“You can understand why we don’t trust you,” he said. “Right?”
I nodded. I stared at him when it suddenly dawned on me where I had seen him.
“You’re Darren Warren, aren’t you?” I asked.
A large grin came over his face. He nodded and seemed a bit more relaxed, put his hands in the air. “Guilty as charged,” he said with a hearty laugh.
“I thought so,” I said. “You seemed really familiar.”
He clasped my hand in both of his. “So good to meet a fan.”
For those who don’t know, Darren Warren was the city’s predominant theater critic. He was a thin man of smallish stature, older with a hard-set chin ready to judge at any moment’s notice. Normally, I wouldn’t follow theater criticisms, but Bruce did and frequently had shown me reviews with pictures of Darren’s glowering face. He had only been to one of Bruce’s plays, and while the review wasn’t positive or negative, he just felt very nonchalant about Bruce’s performance. He also had spelled Bruce’s name wrong, which was the biggest source of sorrow for him.
“The fact he didn’t even bother to know my name,” he’d wept over coffee, the paper in front of him. It was the morning after a performance, and he’d been so excited to see the review. He’d given no sign of letting it go, which meant I was never going to hear the end of it, which I didn’t for almost three weeks. And now there was Darren in front of me and I felt growing excitement over what could possibly happen when Bruce found out.
He beamed. “Which one of my reviews did you like best?” he asked.
“That one,” I said carefully. “The one you did about the guy. It was very serious. And moving.”
“Ah. Geography of a Horse Dreamer .” He closed his eyes and nodded. “Sam Shepherd at his most honest. That was a good one.”
He gathered his robe tightly around him. It seemed as though he might have been naked under it. I prayed to God that wasn’t the case.
He clapped his hands. “Thank you,” he said. “That means a lot to me now that an era of the theatrical arts has passed. Who knows what new inspiration will rise? What’s your name?
“Darren!” someone shouted. He looked over his shoulder, where three of his wide-eyed followers in bathrobes earnestly stared at him.
“Don’t you think we should have a group discussion?” asked the man in the middle.
“About what?”
“Some of us want to perform a Breaking Bad episode, but some people want to watch something else. Lighter fare, if you will.”
The three looked anxious as the man in the middle rubbed his palms together.
“I see.” He pursed his lips and looked at me. “Do you mind if we excuse ourselves for the moment?” he asked.
“Please,” I said. “I’m the one who crashed your party.”
He smiled and pointed at me as he backed away. “That’s good.
I grimaced. “Sorry!” I said. I straightened, turned around and put my hands up in the air. “I don’t mean you any harm,” I said. “I heard your music and just wanted to see what it was.”
Everyone was still staring. I shook, but tried to take long, deep breaths to make myself seem calmer.
The leader took a few steps forward and raised an eyebrow. His face, silver hair and rugged features were extremely familiar, and I knew that I knew him. I had never met him, but I knew I had seen him somewhere, like on television.
He held his guitar protectively in front of him like a shield. I kept my hands up.
“Where do you come from?” he asked.
With one hand I gestured up. “Over the hill,” I said. “There’s a house that a few of us are staying in for the moment.”
“Are you the ones who stole our food?” one of the women shouted.
“Why aren’t you at one of the quarantines?” he asked.
His voice was deep and smooth like a radio announcer’s.
“Our bus was attacked,” I said. “We don’t know where it is.”
“You can understand why we don’t trust you,” he said. “Right?”
I nodded. I stared at him when it suddenly dawned on me where I had seen him.
“You’re Darren Warren, aren’t you?” I asked.
A large grin came over his face. He nodded and seemed a bit more relaxed, put his hands in the air. “Guilty as charged,” he said with a hearty laugh.
“I thought so,” I said. “You seemed really familiar.”
He clasped my hand in both of his. “So good to meet a fan.”
For those who don’t know, Darren Warren was the city’s predominant theater critic. He was a thin man of smallish stature, older with a hard-set chin ready to judge at any moment’s notice. Normally, I wouldn’t follow theater criticisms, but Bruce did and frequently had shown me reviews with pictures of Darren’s glowering face. He had only been to one of Bruce’s plays, and while the review wasn’t positive or negative, he just felt very nonchalant about Bruce’s performance. He also had spelled Bruce’s name wrong, which was the biggest source of sorrow for him.
“The fact he didn’t even bother to know my name,” he’d wept over coffee, the paper in front of him. It was the morning after a performance, and he’d been so excited to see the review. He’d given no sign of letting it go, which meant I was never going to hear the end of it, which I didn’t for almost three weeks. And now there was Darren in front of me and I felt growing excitement over what could possibly happen when Bruce found out.
He beamed. “Which one of my reviews did you like best?” he asked.
“That one,” I said carefully. “The one you did about the guy. It was very serious. And moving.”
“Ah. Geography of a Horse Dreamer .” He closed his eyes and nodded. “Sam Shepherd at his most honest. That was a good one.”
He gathered his robe tightly around him. It seemed as though he might have been naked under it. I prayed to God that wasn’t the case.
He clapped his hands. “Thank you,” he said. “That means a lot to me now that an era of the theatrical arts has passed. Who knows what new inspiration will rise? What’s your name?
“Darren!” someone shouted. He looked over his shoulder, where three of his wide-eyed followers in bathrobes earnestly stared at him.
“Don’t you think we should have a group discussion?” asked the man in the middle.
“About what?”
“Some of us want to perform a Breaking Bad episode, but some people want to watch something else. Lighter fare, if you will.”
The three looked anxious as the man in the middle rubbed his palms together.
“I see.” He pursed his lips and looked at me. “Do you mind if we excuse ourselves for the moment?” he asked.
“Please,” I said. “I’m the one who crashed your party.”
He smiled and pointed at me as he backed away. “That’s good.
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